Definitely creepy.
I trail my fingers along the wood as we descend. It hums faintly beneath my touch, warm despite the frost that edges everything, and my chaos magic stirs in response. Not the usual “you’re about to explode something” feeling. Weirder. Like my magic is wagging its tail.
I pull my hand back.
Nope. Don’t like that.
Ahead of me, Aspen leads like he’s being pulled by an invisible thread. He hasn’t hesitated once since we entered the tree — just keeps moving forward with that quiet certainty that makes the rest of us follow without question.
Must be nice, having instincts that don’t mostly get you in trouble.
Kaia walks near him, her shadows gliding alongside her like purposeful pets. Bob is on high alert, but even he seems… calmer here. Less murder-y. Like the tree convinced him we’re not all about to die.
Torric and Malrik carry Callum between them, his unconscious body slack and too light. Kieran hovers close, jaw tight, eyes never leaving Callum’s face.
The rest of us just follow. Story of my life, really.
The stairs end.
We step into a wide hallway, the walls curving gently ahead so I can’t see where it leads. The air is different here — cooler, cleaner, like winter without the bite.
And the walls are covered in carvings.
Berserker warriors etched in glowing frost-lines, caught mid-battle, mid-ritual, mid-transformation. The detail is insane. I can see individual muscles, individual expressions, individual moments of “I’m about to ruin someone’s day.”
The tree’s already picking favorites, apparently.
Aspen stops dead.
His breath catches — a small, sharp sound that makes everyone freeze. He’s staring at the carvings like they just spoke his name.
Torric almost walks into him. He shifts Callum’s weight, mouth opening to say something — and then he sees the walls.
His face goes slack. Eyes wide. Jaw loose.
I’ve never seen Torric look like that. Like the ground just disappeared under his feet and he’s still falling.
“I got him,” I say, moving forward before I can think about it. I duck under Callum’s arm, taking Torric’s place. Malrik adjusts without a word, and suddenly I’m half-carrying an unconscious traitor through a magic tree.
Not how I saw today going, but fine.
Torric doesn’t even notice. He’s already at the wall, one hand reaching out like he can’t stop himself.
The carvings glow brighter where his fingers touch the wood. Gold threads through the frost-lines — fire meeting ice.
Aspen moves to stand beside him. They don’t speak. They don’t have to.
I watch them trace the carvings with their eyes, with their hands. Watch Torric’s shoulders shake once before he locks them down. Watch Aspen press his palm flat against a carving of two warriors standing back to back — twins, I realize. Twins like them.
And then Aspen goes still.
“Torric,” he breathes. “Look.”
He’s pointing at a larger carving near the end of the hall. Berserkers in formation — dozens of them — flanking a central figure. A woman with wings spread wide, something that looks suspiciously like shadows curling at her feet. A Valkyrie.
The berserkers aren’t just warriors. They’re protectors. Shields. Standing between the Valkyrie and whatever’s coming for her.
“We were her guard,” Torric says roughly. His voice cracks on the words. “That’s what we were. That’s what berserkers were for.”
